


Riverrun

by Nebulashmebula



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Gen, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Post-Magic Reveal, merlin burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 20:31:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12465372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulashmebula/pseuds/Nebulashmebula
Summary: Merlin burns. And then Arthur does, too.





	Riverrun

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in ages, but I just got the urge to write, so here.  
> Not beta'd, not even really planned.  
> Literally a mind dump.  
> Enjoy.

like he was blistering. Like the flames beneath had risen up to claim him too, merciless and terrible in their duty.

Nature was supposed to be the source of magic. That's what they'd said. Fire, then, was the betrayal. The sting of the knife in the dark, the bitterness of the poison in the ale, the redness of the sky at dawn. And fire was blind, consuming all and leaving nothing but embers behind. The guilty, the innocent, the wicked, and the pure.

On a patrol once, when he was younger and still learning, he'd passed through a small village on the very outskirts of Camelot's territory. Living almost exactly between Uther and Cenred's kingdom, the residents were not monitored as closely as those nearer to the citadel. The harvest that year had been particularly poor. The sun had reigned hot and dry throughout most of the wet months, and food was harder to find in the far reaches of the kingdom.  
This village thrived. Its children were strong, energetic, and happy. Its adults of good humour, without disease, loyal to the crown.

They owed their survival to a sorcerer. A young man he'd never learnt the name of, born in the middle of the Purge, who had escaped notice by living so removed from the centre of it all. He'd kept their crops healthy in spite of the parched earth, and had banished the disease from their livestock. But he was discovered, a confession extracted. The knight in charge of Arthur's patrol had burnt him at first light without further trial. The young man had desperately tried to persuade them of the inherent goodness of magic, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Not even the prince had listened, so convinced had he been of the necessity of his father's war.

Before the ashes had cooled, the entire harvest was razed, the livestock slaughtered, and all the men of age sentenced to years of hard labour in the mines. To Arthur then, the knight had cleansed the land of filth, the flames removing every trace of sorcery from the lives of the villagers. But now all he remembered were the tears of the women and the happy children as their families were split and their hopes crushed. Not even the extent of their sorrow was enough to extinguish the blaze, and that village was removed from the maps before next harvest. 

He understood now, as he had failed to before. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. He wanted to scream until his voice broke and his throat was raw, but no sound came. The words bubbled up from the blackness of his mind, and he choked on them all, like ash in his mouth. He wanted to move, to run towards the heat, push against the weight of the horror that trapped him where he stood, but his legs were like trees, rooted in stony shame. And Morgana was weeping at her window, shouting for him, begging for him to do something, but there was nothing, now. The blackened figure was folded in on itself, stooped with the burden of secrecy that would not be relieved even now, and with its hands bound behind its back, it made a haunting mockery of the teasing bow he used to see in the mornings. But it was the head, tilted up to face the heavens. To the crowd looking on, it had almost appeared to be praying to the above for mercy, but he knew better. Before they had been obscured by thick smoke, its eyes had seared into his. They had not begged, they had not accused, they had only borne witness. The sight of them carved itself into his mind like a brand, hot and fiery and permanent. 

He thought that he might never escape them. He would see their imprint when he closed his eyes, as light leaves its design. And he knew, that on those moments of self-reflection, it would be this scene that would envelope his thoughts above all else. This vision that would drag him down, down, down, in a spiralling orbit until his only thoughts were of the smell of burnt flesh and the salt of tears. Round and round and round again, until it was him, until it felt

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the sentence structure.  
> People may or may not get it.
> 
> Constructive criticism much appreciated!  
> (As I said, not beta'd, and always looking to improve)


End file.
